My Maureen
by ElanorRose
Summary: Joanne's Maureen is anything but mainstream. Joanne's POV, a bit experimental, like a 20 Facts fic, but from a character's mind. Strong language.


My Maureen:

-smiles with her chin jutted out just a bit so you can see her pride.

-pretends to have more pride than she actually does so you _can't_ see her fall.

-leaves smelly towels on the floor every morning after her shower but can't go to bed at night till her shoes are arranged and her clothes are set out for the next day.

-takes longer showers than God probably would, so the hot water's mostly gone by the time I get in there.

-makes up for those lengthy showers by leaving me sappy messages in the steam on the mirror. They clear my head better than any hot water ever could.

-curls into a ball when it's cold at night, and wears legwarmers up to her thighs. She shivers in her sleep anyway, and pretends she's not cold, but never fails to sigh in relief when I hold her closer.

-likes to write song lyrics in the sand and then brush them away. She says it's symbolic, but of what, exactly, I have no fucking clue.

-cooks pancakes whenever I have a court case. She looks like Donna Reed, shaking her spatula at me, hand on hip and claiming that a hearty breakfast makes the mind work faster. I've never told her, but her methods work.

-sleeps until two after drinking the night away, and then wakes up with a hangover anyway, groggy and breath smelling like Roger's sock drawer. Not exactly appetizing, but sexy all the same.

-barely ever brushes her hair. She claims it's too curly to go near with any sort of grooming implement, but if I can style mine, she can do something with hers.

-has argued with me countless times about the hair issue, and somehow always manages to win.

-knows just where to kiss my neck. Unfortunately, she chooses to do so in uncomfortably public places, like the line at the supermarket, or the security deposit room at the bank, or under the tables at the Life when we're hiding from Mark's camera.

-gets rewarded for those kisses with stern, disapproving glances from many within eyeshot. My Maureen cheerfully flips them off, and goes on her way.

-is more afraid to lose than anything else in the world. This includes objects, games, competitions, others' attention, and others themselves.

-cried herself to sleep the morning Angel died, in an unknown apartment somewhere near Tompkins Square Park, accompanied not by me but by a cold unfeeling stranger whose name she couldn't recall. I found this out a few teary nights later, and to this day regret not being able to hold her.

-has an oral fixation the size of this galaxy.

-likes to, as a result of said oral fixation, suck the cream filling out of Lindt truffles and then kiss people on the cheek while her lips are still coated in chocolate. I think this is her way of telling people that she loves them, and she just doesn't know it yet.

-eats white rice from the Chinese restaurant down the block every day for lunch.

-inhales sushi along with Collins like they haven't had a meal in two weeks. She can have my share as often as she wants—raw fish aren't exactly to my taste.

-knows Collins almost as well as Angel did. Almost. _She's_ never slept with him. Both girls were sure, though, that they _could_ get Collins into a dress if they tried hard enough.

-doesn't understand Roger for the life of her. Sure, they laugh and talk together, and he shares stories about his band with her that others will _never_ hear, but in the end she comes home to me with a perplexed expression, wondering why he doesn't value his life as much as he obviously wants to.

-envies Mimi's ability to let go and live, but doesn't quite comprehend her necessity for dependency on certain objects. First heroin, then Roger. When I tell her that _she_ can't go anywhere without her leather jacket, she sticks out her tongue and says, "That's different, so shut up."

-never means it when she insults you. Unless it's Benny; that's all real.

-wonders what life would have been like had she never met me. We sat up one night, painting a comic fantasy of her petty existence in the suburbs, surrounded by blonde-headed Jewish babies and married to a filmmaker. In the end, we just laughed it off, because her discomfort was almost palpable.

-smells like her leather catsuit and citrus body wash. All the time.

-likes to pretend she's a rockstar, and does the fifteen-year-old-sing-in-the-mirror-with-hairbrush-as-microphone thing. Always some hippie band, like Jefferson Airplane, or Creedence Clearwater Revival. Usually to wake me up in the mornings, but I can't complain. She hits the notes better than anyone else could.

-won't go near the others' cigarettes with a ten foot pole. She explains to them daily that it's because it would kill her voice, which she needs. I overheard her telling them off for smoking around me, though, because it aggravated my asthma. Surprisingly, they listened.

-rubs my stomach when I'm nervous, and tucks her head just between my chin and shoulder when she is.

-has so much fight in her I sometimes wonder when her supply's going to run out. Then I remember that we're both probably the most abominably stubborn people on the planet, and I stop wondering. It'll be there for as long as mine is; which is to say, till death do us part. Ironic.

-doesn't like to be trapped. We're still working on that one.

-has the incredible ability to be infuriating yet alluring, pensive yet whimsy, all at once. And that, of course, is why I keep her around.


End file.
